


Exit, Pursued By A Memory

by luftballons



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons/pseuds/luftballons
Summary: In 1907, John and Charles reminisce about the past and find that they have a lot more in common than they thought.





	1. a rock in a riverbed

_1907_

“You miss him, don’t you.” It should be a question, but Charles’ cadence doesn’t make it one. He isn’t asking. He’s telling.

“’course I miss him. Every damn day,” John’s answer comes anyway, melancholy. His voice sounds even rougher than normal, like it’s threatening to break. He swirls around the whiskey in his glass looking at it rather than Charles. It seems like he isn’t going to say more, but Charles waits, and that’s really the problem. Charles knows him too well, now. “It’s like—it’s like a hole, in my chest? Feels like I’m suffocating, some days. Others, you wake up and think, shit, maybe I can do this.” John shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear the fog out of it. His hands shake so he takes another drink. “I miss Abigail, too, I do, I just—”

“It’s not the same thing. I know.” And, really, it sounds like Charles _does_ know. There’s no judgment in Charles’ voice, just understanding. An understanding so raw and so open John can’t help but look at him again, his eyes searching the other man’s face for some kind of hint that he’s right.

The liquor makes him bold. Uncle is snoring upstairs, fast asleep and oblivious to their conversation. When John speaks, it’s low and conspiratorial, anyway, “Charles, do you – did you – shit, I don’t know how to ask this—”

“Then don’t, if you don’t want to.” Charles just shrugs. If John doesn’t want to know the answer, he won’t force it on him. Charles was always the most even-headed of all of them. He had a way of finding simplicity even in things that didn’t seem simple.

It’s not that simple to John, though. John was always too quick to think and too quick to act. “You miss him, too.” It isn’t a question, though.

“Every damn day,” Charles replies. 

_1899_

Charles Smith was a good man. There weren’t many of those in their line of work. But Charles worked without complaint and always did more than his share. Arthur had admired him from the day he’d joined the gang. He’d done so quietly, from afar. It wasn’t really until Charles took him hunting that the two of them began to talk more often.

Being around Charles, it felt like enlightenment. Arthur hung on his words. It wasn’t the same kind of reverence with which he listened to Dutch, but something different. Charles was a different kind of captivating. It did wonders for Arthur’s productivity. As the favorite son (after John, of course, but that was a different story), Arthur was never asked to hunt, but after Charles taught him, he found himself eager to go out and use his bow. Not to please Charles, but to use the knowledge Charles had given him. To keep learning with or without the other man.

There was always so much to be done, that was the real problem. Hunting for food, gathering herbs. Running errands for random folk he ran into. Arthur never complained either. He did what was asked of him. These days, he was doing a lot more, too.

It had been a few days since he’d made it back to camp, caught up in the minutiae of everything he was juggling at once. He’d gone on a few long outings, everything he needed on his horse and camping as he went. Never for a moment did his loyalty stray from Dutch, but these days sometimes it was easier in the wilderness than at camping, listening to everyone bicker about what they were doing next. Being out in the wild was a blessing. A chance to center himself again before going back and spending time with the gang. He was certain Dutch knew what he was doing, certain that they’d get out of this problem. They always had.

Coffee warming in the pot, Arthur draws in his journal by the firelight. It’s a quiet and pleasant evening, the warmth of the fire just enough against the crisp night. It’s meditative, drawing and writing about his day. The new things he encountered. His concerns about the future.

“You’re a difficult man to find, you know that, Arthur Morgan?” Charles, announcing his approach. The man could be quite silent, but the announcement keeps Arthur from jumping out of his skin and shooting him.

“Didn’t mean to be,” Arthur shrugs, pocketing his journal. He tries not to seem excited to see Charles, feigns at being nonchalant. “Something wrong back at camp that you had to make this social call?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Charles shakes his head, coming to sit down next to Arthur. His horse is hitched over by Arthur’s own. It’s late, and maybe Charles isn’t looking to head back right away, either. “Dutch gets nervous when anyone’s gone too long, you know how it is.”

“Shit, I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. It has been a few days, though, and if Dutch sent Charles, he must have really started to worry. And it’s not just about the emotion, it’s the inconvenience. The fact they had to send Charles out here, to the middle of nowhere. The fact Arthur isn’t around to help out. “We should get going.”

“No. Stay.” Charles raises a hand, gently reminding Arthur to do so. “It’s been a long ride out here. My horse could use the rest, and it looks like you’ve had a long day, too.”

Arthur hums an agreement, albeit reluctantly. It had been a long day, and it was a long way back to the camp. But he knows this is also just another example of Charles looking out for him, the way he looked out for everyone. Or maybe not everyone. Arthur tries not to show the way that he looks at Charles in the light of the fire. The strong curve of his back, the bulk of muscles in his arms. But Charles, who is always aware of everything, notices away.

Charles’ eyes catch Arthur’s own, and Charles smiles. It’s small and warm, almost easy to miss. With how intently Arthur is studying Charles, though, that’d be pretty difficult. But discomfort – awkwardness – overwhelms Arthur well before it seems to affect Charles and Arthur looks away, clearing his throat. “Do you –” Arthur’s voice cracks, and he tries to cover it, “Do you want some coffee?”

“No, don’t.” Charles reaches over and puts his hand on Arthur’s. Arthur looks back up confused more than anything, but Charles quickly clarifies, “you don’t have to hide from me. I seen the way you been looking at me for awhile now. We aren’t at camp anymore, Arthur.” From anyone else, it might have sounded angry, or sounded like a threat. From Charles, it is patient. Honest. Only Charles could pull off a real attempt to help him speak his mind, the words a guiding, gentle hand that is unlike the way anyone else treats him.

“I just wanted to offer you some coffee,” Arthur replies. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, which feel dry the longer Charles’ hand remains in place on his. Surely it’s the coffee that makes his heart race, though.

“Alright,” Charles removes his hand and nods, taking Arthur at face value. “Yes, I would like some coffee.”

Arthur pours a cup for him, but his breath feels heavy like the night air. The anticipation weighing thick on him as his mind tries to calculate where Charles wanted to go with that. Charles would never push him, he knows that, but he did give him an opportunity. One Arthur was quickly squandering. Arthur hands over the cup, watching Charles intently again like he might find the answer to all his problems on Charles’ face. Not that he needs to look that far – he’s the one who refuses to speak up. The one who was too scared to really respond.

Charles just sips his coffee and watches the fire. It was like he could take it or he could leave it, and it wouldn’t bother him. He was a rock in a streambed, unphased by anything around him. Arthur, meanwhile, was the flowing and frantic water, uncertain which way he should go around the rock.

“Say I was lookin’ at you,” Arthur says finally, after a long moment of silence “what difference would it make that we aren’t at camp?”

“Only that I thought you might be more likely to act on it, without prying eyes,” Charles replies simply, looking back over at Arthur. Ever calm. Ever unwavering.

Arthur feels foolish, and this sort of thing never made him feel that way. But Charles, this big, beautiful, strong man he’d been admiring for months, he was something else. This was not just a quick tumble in the hay with some girl from town. For once, Arthur felt like maybe he had something to prove even if Charles would never demand it. Maybe that was just it, maybe it was because because Charles never demanded anything of him.

“This isn’t my usual… _venue_ ,” he decides for lack of a better term. Charles hadn’t been around when Arthur used to make the kind of drunken escapade mistakes that were so notorious in their gang. Charles had joined them at an awkward time when they’d been on the run a lot. The only exception to those escapades, of course, had been Mary, who he’d courted like a proper gentleman. But that hadn’t worked out either, which put him not really knowing what he was supposed to do here. Now.

When Charles laughs, it’s sweet. Charles isn’t laughing at him so much as he’s laughing about the absurdity of society, about having to go through these moves. Everything was so simple and straightforward to Charles. “Nor is it mine. But I don’t know why that ought to stop us.”

Charles is right. He usually is.

Arthur makes the first move. He turns to Charles and reaches over, running his fingers through Charles’ hair and tucking a few strands of it behind his ear. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to Charles’ lips. He lets himself close his eyes, dart his tongue out against Charles’ lips just to taste for a moment. Charles lets him. Charles is salt and earth, a pleasant and enticing mix of nature and sweat. Arthur lingers, slides his tongue into Charles’ willing and open mouth. The kiss doesn’t last very long, but when Arthur pulls away, he’s breathless.

“Shit, I…” Arthur has never been great with words, but he blushes in the light of the fire now, more so because he doesn’t know what to say than because of any embarrassment over what he just did.

Charles is smiling like someone gave him his first birthday gift in years. He doesn’t focus the warmth of that attention on Arthur, though, he’s looking down at his coffee cup. It’s meant to give Arthur space to process, not to hide his reaction. He doesn’t speak, he waits, patient as ever for Arthur to find his footing.

“You’re something else, Charles Smith,” Arthur settles on finally. He sets down the coffee cup and turns towards Charles. His whole body posture, his face, his eyes, they all ask the same thing: come here? He doesn’t need to say it, Charles knows.

Setting down his coffee cup, Charles turns towards Arthur and moves closer, the two of them finding their way onto the blankets Arthur had set up. Arthur chides himself for not bothering to set up a tent tonight, but the evening was so nice he hadn’t seen any point. He definitely doesn’t see any point to correcting it now, at least. Not when Charles is crawling over him.

God, Charles is as big as a goddamn bear perched over him like that. Much more friendly, certainly, but there’s a hunger he can see in those eyes. It’s hard to find, but Arthur learned how to be a hunter from the best. He’s learned to pick up on small things like that.

“Are we going to do this?” Charles asks him, not to goad him on but to be sure of what he wants.

“Yeah,” Arthur replies, his voice rough and his throat dry, “like you said, been admiring you for awhile, now. Might hate myself if I don’t take the opportunity.” That earns him a laugh, soft and gentle like windchimes.

“You’re no small prize yourself, Arthur Morgan.”

It does something deep in his gut to hear Charles say those words. Like something tightens and clenches, clinging onto the praise with a desperation he didn’t know he had for it. He’d always thought he wasn’t particularly good looking, and he still got teased for being soft and pretty even after he’d grown into the hard muscles that defined him as an adult. He knows Charles doesn’t say them idly.

There’s just so much clothing and belts between the two of them. They’d be a tangled mess trying to get each other undressed if it were for Charles’ patience. He takes it slowly, helping Arthur and letting him help, setting the pace to keep them from desperately ripping each other’s clothes off. And maybe, if he wasn’t holding himself back, Charles really would. Belts and holsters and weapons and boots are eventually shed. It’s still warm enough that once all of the clothes go too that neither of them are particularly cold, although the night air feels strange on Arthur’s skin.

“There he is,” Charles says softly, reaching down to run his fingers along Arthur’s bare skin. Arthur shivers. Charles treats all of him like a prize, mapping out the plains of his chest before even thinking about his cock.

“Yeah, you got plenty to look at on an ugly old bastard like me,” Arthur retorts, full of self-loathing. The way Charles looks makes him regret it. In the dim light of the fire, Charles’ expression nearly breaks his heart.

“Who taught you to say those things about yourself?” Charles wonders aloud, but the two of them know the answer without needing to say it. The world that they lived in was a great and terrible place. Arthur knows Charles learned similar lessons, even if he does not voice them. “Let me convince you otherwise,” Charles says, before they can become too wrapped up in their thoughts. He presses a line of kisses down Arthur’s neck to his collarbone. Down his chest and to his abs. He dips down lower and then looks up at Arthur, now the clearly the hunter rather than the prey.

Arthur sucks in a deep breath, watching Charles linger. Does he want Charles to suck his cock? Absolutely. Who in the hell would say no to that? And yet, Arthur shakes his head. “Not like that,” he says, “come back up here and let’s do this right.”

“There’s no right or wrong in this,” Charles corrects him but crawls back up to press a kiss to Arthur’s lips. He knows what Arthur means, even if Arthur doesn’t articulate it right. “What do you want, then?”

The sound of Charles’ voice is intoxicating, potent as whiskey. It takes him a moment to respond, waiting for the burn to make its way down his throat. What does he want, then? A good question. “Wanna feel you,” he decides, “all of you.”

Another man might have asked him what he meant by that. Charles does not. He reaches over to his satchel to find something to coat his fingers with. “I want that too,” he says.

Arthur is sensitive, and Charles knows just how to touch him. He’s suddenly very grateful they shed all their clothes and boots especially, because with the way his legs scramble for purchase every time Charles touches him just right, he’s certain he’d be digging his spurs into Charles’ legs if they were still on. Charles’ instincts – or actual knowledge, he’s not really sure – on this are incredible. It’s all give and take, pushing in only to reward him by touching him just right. Focusing on the goal and getting him open, but never trying more than he feels Arthur can handle. It’s more than he’d expect of anyone, really. It makes him admire Charles even more. All the while, Charles presses more of those gentle kisses to his skin as if still trying to prove that he loves all of it. As if still trying to prove that Arthur is worth something. With the way Charles kisses him, he’s inclined to believe it.

By the time Charles is inside him, his skin feels like it’s on fire. Charles fills him so much it feels like it steals his breath right out of his body. Arthur loves it. “You’re gonna ruin me for anyone else, at this rate,” he tells him, breathless and lightheaded, almost giddy.

Charles smooths back his hair and kisses his forehead, “How could I ruin something so perfect and strong?” As Arthur melts from the compliment, Charles starts to rock his hips into him. The timing is impeccable.

If sex is usually about breaking for Arthur, about being taken apart and put back together again, Charles shifts the metaphor entirely. Charles is like an artist molding clay. He doesn’t break anything, just bends it anew. His touches and kisses remain gentle and present, while his rhythm is steady. His hips do not beat into Arthur, they roll through every stroke, the pleasure rocking through Arthur like calm waves. He doesn’t remember ever feeling like this with anyone. He’s never been one to take it slow or spend this kind of time, but Charles makes him never want to stop.

Arthur moans a string of curses, and Charles smiles against his skin. Bringing him to incoherency, it seems, is a personal victory for him. Arthur tries to find words, a retort, or anything, but they don’t come to his lips. All that he is now is bound up in the rhythmic way Charles ebbs and flows. All that he is begins and ends with the feeling of Charles inside of him. “Please,” he says, when he finds his voice again. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but Charles does. Somehow, Charles knows more about him than he knows about himself. He wraps one of his big hands around Arthur’s cock and pleasures him, a slow pace to match the rhythm of his hips. Their hips. Together.

When Arthur comes, the whole world goes white and time seems to stop, and he lingers there just on the edge for as long as he can hold on. The orgasm moves through his body and the aftershocks come too, pulsating through him as Charles, ever patient and ever unwavering, keeps fucking him. Arthur is a useless mess where he’s laying, but he’s grateful that his body can still do something for this man who has taken such good care of him. He can see the way the pleasure breaks on Charles’ face every time one of those aftershocks cause him to tighten around Charles inside of him. He wishes he could do more, but to see Charles what he’s doing is more than enough.

Charles comes with a grunt, balls deep inside of Arthur and holding himself there through all of it as if trying to keep them as one as long as he can. He lies down gently on top of Arthur after, doesn’t pull out until the two of them are well and completely spent. Until both of their bodies have calmed, until the pleasure stops coursing through them. Charles moves so that he’s next to Arthur and runs his fingers along his naked skin, shining with sweat and sullied with spend. Neither of them bother to clean up. The fire is mostly died out, but the moon is full and bright and lights up their skin.

They’re quiet for a long time. Neither wanting to break the spell between them. The blessed silence that coats their bodies and keeps them together.

Then, finally, as if to prove he hasn’t fallen asleep, Arthur says, “You never did drink that coffee I offered you.”

Charles snorts out a laugh. “I’ll ask for it again another night.” It makes Arthur’s toes curl. What he wouldn’t give for another night like this.


	2. a summer constellation

_1907_

“Charles?” John’s question, almost demanding, leaves Charles a little startled. He turns to look at the other man, his brain turning slowly between the liquor and the memories. For a moment, Charles just stares and John, unblinking while he processes. But when he doesn’t draw up anything, John offers, “I asked you if you wanted more whiskey.”

“Oh,” comes Charles’ reply, finally. He looks down at his empty cup. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No. I’m fine.” But now, he doesn’t sound fine. Like John’s own grieving has caught him and taken hold. John’s seen him like this before, back in the old days. When Charles got low as the rest of them felt. When his answers came in pained responses and no one knew what to do. How could they, when someone like Charles was so raw and vulnerable? It was one thing when John complained – just part of his character, Arthur would’ve said. But Charles? To see his pain was haunting. It left everyone speechless.

John doesn’t know what to say. He finishes off his whiskey and sets it down, watching Charles. Does he say more? Try to change the subject? Charles must have brought it up to help him but look at where that got them both. John can’t help it; he laughs quietly under his breath.

“What’s so funny?” Charles is on the defensive now, stiffening as if the laughter was a fist ready to hit him.

“Nothing – nothing!” John’s response comes fast, trying to calm him down. “Nah, it’s just – I mean, listen to us! He’s still everywhere, ain’t he? Always took everyone’s attention when he was around, even when he didn’t mean to, and that ain’t changed.”

Charles doesn’t laugh, but the edges of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling, at least on the inside. John’s right, of course. “You knew him best.”

John almost blushes, but shakes his head, “I doubt it. ‘specially after I…” John sighs deeply, it’s hard to talk about even now. Maybe especially now, that Abigail’s left him. Maybe especially now that Arthur isn’t here to keep him honest about it. “Things weren’t ever right after I left.”

“You think?” Charles looks serious now, looking straight at John, “Do you think just anyone could bring such a reaction out in him? No, I think if he hated you, he would’ve just ignored you. I think you know that, too.”

John is quiet for a long time. Finally, “well, he always did say I was dumb as rocks.”

_1893_

“C’mon, Arthur! Just let me go with you, I’ll help!” John follows behind Arthur as he tacks up his horse, giving the last in a long line of reasons he has offered Arthur. The latest is begging, a new tactic after a string of logic. Or at least, what passed for logic with John.

“For the last time –” But before Arthur can finish, John grabs his shoulder, looking up at him with those stupid doe eyes that punch him right in the gut every time, like they’ve been doing since they inherited John as a dumb child. Well, dumb or not, he’s certainly got Arthur trained to his liking, so maybe Arthur really needs to evaluate that assessment. Arthur tries again, but it’s clear John is breaking past his resolve, “I’m not –”

“Please, Arthur? You need an extra hand, and I know you’d rather it was mine. What’re you gonna do? Bring Uncle?”

“You know damn well bringing Uncle’s like doing a job with my hands tied,” Arthur sighs. He looks John over, working his jaw like he might find a good reason that absolutely dissuades John from coming. He’s used up most of them. They aren’t going to get in a fight. They aren’t going to do any thieving. It’s just some errands, taking care of the mail and picking up some provisions. He doesn’t need another hand. Which means there’s some other reason John wants to go with him. Arthur tries not to be so soft with him, but if there’s really something on his mind maybe it’s worth hearing out.

Mind made up, Arthur takes his time sharing it. He mounts his horse, checks the girth and makes sure he has all his guns. John watches from the ground, impatient. Then, when John’s just about to jump on his own horse, Arthur’s wishes be damned, Arthur says, “Fine. You can come along. But you shoot anyone who ain’t shooting at us, and I swear I will leave you there.”

He doesn’t mean it. He never does.

John knows, it’s their song and dance. Arthur likes to jab and joke. Neither of them are particularly quick about it, not the way Hosea and Dutch are. But Arthur makes up for it in quiet smiles and the way he takes care of John. The same way Arthur’s been doing since John was a little kid. To hear Arthur talk, John still is.

It’s been a long time since John was a child, though. He’s a man now. Hosea and Dutch treat him like it, but not Arthur. It frustrates him. When Arthur talks to him like this. When he doesn’t acknowledge how much he’s grown. When they’re riding out and he gets this perfect view of the defined muscles of Arthur’s back, his shoulders, his hands. Maybe it’s better, that Arthur doesn’t realize the way John stares at him isn’t just admiration of his talents.

“So, when’re you going to tell me what this is really about?” Arthur’s voice breaks the silence between them. They’ve been riding for a ways, John wrapped up in his thoughts and Arthur in silence, just waiting. Arthur can be patient with John, when he wants to be.

“Just wanted a break, I guess.” John shrugs, in that almost petulant way of his. Somewhere between a whining child and a disaffected teen. In that way that means there is most certainly more.

“A break?” Arthur repeats, giving the word a little time in the air. “From what?”

“Nothing,” John says.

“Okay,” Arthur replies. “Nothing, then.” He waits for more, but nothing comes. Rather than pressing for an answer, they head into town. They take care of the mail. They buy supplies and upgrade guns. Normal, boring errands. No one gets shot.

Afterwards, though, Arthur doesn’t ride home. It takes John awhile to notice, mostly because he doesn’t pay much attention and his horse knows to follow Arthur’s. The errands were boring, as promised, and the day dragged. But once it’s really clear (even to his sometimes poor sense of direction) that they’re riding away from camp and not towards it, he says, “You lost, old man?”

“Was wondering when you was gonna notice,” Arthur laughs, low. John wants to punch him for being so damn smug. “Nah, we ain’t going back yet. They can do without us for a night. Said you wanted a break, didn’t you?”

“Oh.” John replies, surprised that Arthur was going back to that, surprised that he intended to make any good on it. But he perks up a little, “Yeah? So? Where’s the break?”

“Found a good spot to camp. Hope your idea of a break wasn’t a hotel.”

“Very funny,” John rolls his eyes. Neither of them felt very comfortable in towns, the idea of civilization like an itch under their skin. No, he’d much rather camp. But excitement over the idea quickly turns to dread. While he used to bunk with Arthur when he was younger, he likes not sleeping in the same tent as him now. Mostly because an awful lot of his dreams involve Arthur, and the last thing he wants is for Arthur to figure that out. But sleeping near him? In the same tent? He’ll just have to think about literally anything else. Miss Grimshaw. Pearson. Miss Grimshaw _and_ Pearson, doing it. Yeah, that’s definitely enough to keep him from thinking about Arthur in any serious way.

They make it to a spot Arthur likes and set up camp. John gets the fire going and starts some coffee while Arthur puts out a tent and their bedrolls. Arthur eventually sits down next to him by the fire.

“Nice night out, ain’t it?” Arthur asks him, looking up at the sky. It’s dark now, the whole day wasted on pointless (in John’s mind) errands, but Arthur is right: the sky is beautiful. Constellations pattered the sky between other clusters of stars, more than John could possibly ever map but devoid of clouds and shining like it was shining for just the two of them.

Grimshaw. Pearson.

Grimshaw and Pearson.

Deep breaths.

It’s not like John thinks Arthur is trying to be nice to him to make something of it. It’s not like Arthur looks at him the way John looks at Arthur. No, Arthur likes drinking and Arthur likes nice ladies in town. Arthur had liked Mary, and then Arthur had liked Eliza. They hadn’t worked out, but that didn’t mean Arthur had any interest in John.

“You ready to talk yet?” Arthur asks, interrupting John’s calculations. He pulls out some meat and roasts it over the fire while he waits. Arthur hated being idle. It was something John always admired about it. It wasn’t the way John was, always jumpy to do something, no, Arthur just didn’t like it if he wasn’t being useful.

“What does it matter to you?” John’s voice has a hard edge he didn’t mean it to have. Sometimes, his voice did that. It got defensive before he wanted to be. It got him in trouble, more like.

Arthur raises his hands in surrender, “Easy there, now. I was just asking.”

John sighs heavily, almost like he’s mad. “Sometimes, I want—” But he stops, looking away from Arthur, not letting himself continue. It’s too dangerous, going down that route and there’s a million things he could say that would be true. He wouldn’t even have to lie.

“What do you want, John?” Arthur asks, like it’s the simplest thing. Like it’s the simplest goddamn thing. It’s not simple to John. He grits his teeth.

“Sometimes, I wanna punch you in the face.”

Arthur looks at him confused for a second, but then puts the cooked meat in his satchel and stands. “Okay, John,” he says each word slow. Patient. Like he’s training a horse. “Punch me in the face.”

“No, stupid,” John replies, but he stands and when he does his hands are balled into fists.

“I’m sorry, maybe I’m not understanding,” Arthur replies, an edge to his voice. Arthur could be riled up, too, that was the thing. And John always knew how to do it, “You tell me you wanna punch me in the face, and I give you the option and you stand up lookin’ like you’re gonna do it, but _I’m_ the stupid one?”

“Yeah,” John says.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” John says, “You heard me.”

“You’re crazy sometimes, John Marston.”  But the edge to Arthur’s voice is fading. He laughs quiet and shakes his head, “Make up your mind, the offer don’t stay on the table forever.”

“Sometimes, I wanna –” Grimshaw. Pearson. Oh, fuck it. “Arthur, sometimes, god, you ever feel that way about a person?”

“Like I wanna punch them? Sure, lots of folk got punchable faces. Hell, Herr Strauss says there’s a word in German that means that!”

“No, not like that,” John replies, frustrated. That just makes Arthur more confused.

“Not like that?” Arthur repeats, quirking an eyebrow, “But you said –”

“I know what I said.”

“So….”

“So, you ever feel like that?”

Arthur sighs and rubs the back of his neck, “Look, John, I want to answer you, but I honestly got no idea what you’re on about.”

John takes a deep breath. Where Arthur thinks, John acts on impulse. He’s always been that way. If he had time to think this through, he wouldn’t do it. Hell, he’d even tried not to, but it was too late now. When he talks, it comes pouring out, “Somedays, I think maybe if I hit you hard enough you’ll realize I’m not just some stupid child. And then I think, that ain’t what I want at all. It wouldn’t feel good. So I think, what I really want to do is jump on top of you. Climb you like the goddamn tree you are and shove my tongue in your throat and ride your –”

“Stop,” Arthur tells him. John is breathing hard and shaking and horrified that Arthur has stopped him. Arthur looks like he hasn’t taken a breath since John started talking, like he’s frozen. It’s like Arthur’s a damn deer, head up and waiting for that brief moment trying to decide if he should stay and get shot or run. John stops like he’s told. Arthur doesn’t say anything. And they stand there, like a duel. John vibrating out of his skin and Arthur refusing to move.

Just like a duel, someone eventually has to draw. And for all that Arthur is usually quick, John’s reckless.

“’cause you don’t want to hear it?” He asks, licking his lips, “or ‘cause you do?”

Arthur’s eyes narrow into a glare. John doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Arthur this angry before. “Go home,” he says, his voice deadly. That definitely wasn’t the reaction John was expecting.

“What?” John blinks, relaxing if only because he’s so stunned.

“You heard me! Go on! Git!” Arthur points at John’s horse, “Right now!”

“You didn’t answer the question,” John says, bold and yet terrified at the same time. Arthur’s hand moves towards his holster, and John’s heart feels like it’s around about to beat out of his chest. John holds his hands up in surrender. “Whoa – whoa! Don’t do anything silly, now, Arthur, I’ll go.”

Arthur’s hand drops, like he didn’t realize what was happening. But Arthur is breathing heavy now, too. He doesn’t know why he didn’t notice it before. As he studies Arthur, he realizes there’s a lot he didn’t notice before, like how tight Arthur’s pants are around his crotch, and, oh.

_Oh_.

“Tell me again you want me to leave,” John says, but he says it more to Arthur’s increasing discomfort than to his face.

“You’ve got one of them punchable faces,” Arthur replies, almost a grumble. He’s not looking at John. John laughs, awkwardly, hysterically, waves of tension rolling of his body now that he’s sure Arthur isn’t going to kill him.

“Were you really gunna shoot me?” John asks, still laughing like a lunatic.

“No, ‘course not,” Arthur shakes his head, but he’s still tense. He’s scared, John realizes, more than he is angry. That’s why he went for his gun. It’s what any of them would do. That’s how you make it through this life – you train your fear into something different. “I’m sorry, I –”

John wasn’t expecting an apology, though.

“I didn’t mean –” Arthur sighs, unbuckles his gunbelt and lets them fall to the ground, as if in offering. “It’s just –”

“Don’t gotta explain it,” John shrugs.

“We can’t do this,” the explanation starting anyways, “you gotta leave.”

“Why?”

“Because – because, if you stay, I’ll let you climb me like a goddamn tree and let you shove your tongue down my throat and let you ride my cock like you’re hightailing it across the prairie.”

John’s throat feels dry, when Arthur says that. His cock stirs in his pants and his desire just grows, the fear easily replaceable when Arthur says things like that.

“Don’t see the downside to that,” John says. But it’s clear Arthur does. It’s clear Arthur is terrified of the prospect. That’s why he tried to scare him off. John relaxes more the longer Arthur talks. John’s biggest fear was that Arthur might not appreciate a man coming onto him. Not everyone did. But Arthur clearly isn’t struggling with that part in the least, it’s the rest. It’s that he still sees him like some child he has to protect. “I don’t know if you ain’t noticed, or what, but I’m not a kid anymore.”

 Arthur is quiet for a long time, looking away from John as shame creeps up his neck and face, reddening his skin. Then quietly, “I noticed.”

The silence between them is deafening, but only for a moment, because quick as a flash John undoes his own gunbelt and jumps Arthur, just takes a running leap and throws his arms and legs around him clinging tight as he shoves his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur catches him, startled but holding tight so he doesn’t drop him. He tries to protest, but it’s half-hearted at best and muffled by John’s tongue. John’s spurs dig into the backs of his legs and that makes him moan, a sound John has only dreamed of but that sounds so, so much better in person than he could have ever imagined.

“I wanna ride your cock like you said,” John says, pulling away only far enough to talk, his lips already swelling from how hard he’d been kissing Arthur, “Like I’m hightailing it across the prairie. Let me do that, Arthur, please.”

Arthur has never been good at saying no to John. But with this, John has the winning argument without any further discussion. Arthur’s careful as he gets them both on the ground, trying to take it slow for John. But John has the exact opposite idea. The second he doesn’t have any fear of falling, he pushes Arthur down. He’s quick, pulling his pants down to his ankles but doesn’t bother taking them off. His idea of undressing Arthur is even more simplistic, just freeing Arthur’s hard cock from his clothes.

For all that he’s quick, he takes a moment to really admire Arthur’s girth, his eyes taking it in hungrily. It’ll be a lot, but that’s part of what he’s been dreaming of. Arthur reaches into his satchel for something and hands it over. There’s a question in his eyes, waiting for John to ask what to do with it, but John doesn’t ask. He knows what it’s for and he knows how to finger himself open, he’s done it plenty of times before. Arthur’s eyes widen when he starts.

“John, I can –”

“Nah, lemme…” John sighs as he slides in a second digit, basking in his own ability to do this, “I got it.”

Arthur’s expression is full of devotion, watching him, like he rivals the night sky in beauty. It might embarrass John in any other situation, but not like this. He’d love to show off for Arthur. He’d never thought about that, before, how he might want Arthur to just watch as he fingered himself open, pleasuring himself as he got ready. But he doesn’t have time for that. He doesn’t have time for anything but preparing himself for Arthur Morgan’s big, beautiful dick. John rushes it a little, but that’s how he does everything. Why start being thorough now?

Arthur moans almost as loud as he does when he sinks down on him. The pleasure on their faces must mirror one another, John reveling in the fullness inside of him and Arthur savoring the tight warmth around his cock. John throws his head back and laughs breathlessly once he’s gotten himself seated fully on Arthur.

“Better than I imagined,” he says, almost panting. His dark hair falls in his face and he can’t be bothered to move it. Arthur fills him so much he can’t hardly breath. He could live on this sensation, lightheaded and giddy and perfect.

“How many times?” Arthur asks, running his hands along John’s thighs, “how many times you imagined this?”

“Hundreds,” John tells him, “Oh, hundreds of times.” Slowly, he starts to move his hips, rolling them. Just like he’s riding a horse, picking up a rhythm. “Every time you come back to camp sweatin’ and glistenin’ and lookin’ so fine.”

Arthur growls low in his chest, evidently enjoying John continuing to talk through this. He rolls his hips up to meet John through every movement. Following his speed but keeping him close on his cock so he never goes far. Each time John clenches around him he can feel it deep in his very core, and it makes him want more still. More of John’s words. More of John’s tight ass. More of John’s beautiful body.

“Like to watch you ride,” John tells him. As he moves faster, he takes his own cock in hand and starts stroking it. He almost expects Arthur to stop him, that Arthur will try to take care of it the way Arthur tries to take care of everything. But then he notices the way Arthur is watching him, transfixed. It’s not that Arthur doesn’t want to help. It’s that watching John touch himself is so clearly doing something for Arthur, too. “All day today, it was so hard, Arthur, bein’ behind you. Got to watch your body work, knowing how badly I wanted it, and, oh, Arthur, jesus, I can’t keep talking like this.”

John loses himself to moans as he works himself harder, and Arthur uses his hands on John’s thighs to keep him down and close. He’s so deep inside of John and both of them so clearly need it that way. Need to stay close, Arthur’s cock buried inside of John and John crying out. Arthur’s own sounds of pleasure mix together with John’s, quieter but still present.

“It’s okay,” Arthur tells him, his voice staying sweet somehow despite the strain, “you got me now. We’re gonna make it okay.” He squeezes John’s thigh. “There, that’s it,” he tells him, praising John as he works himself over, “you need it so bad, I know.” With Arthur’s coaching, it’s no time at all before John comes in his own hand, crying out and moaning Arthur’s name. Arthur keeps fucking him, mercilessly, even after. He’s big and strong and he’s not about to stop until he’s good and satisfied and that’s exactly what John wants. John is overwhelmed by it, held close by Arthur’s strong grip. Arthur keeps saying sweet things to him, praising him and telling him he’s a good boy until he finally comes, squeezing John close to him through his orgasm, moaning soft and staying close.

John lies down on Arthur, whining when Arthur pulls out of him. Arthur smooths back his hair and kisses his forehead. “Don’t sound so sad,” Arthur tells him gently, “you were brave today.” More than anything, the compliment warms John from head to toe. Brave, Arthur called him. Over this. Over wanting to ride him. Over wanting to punch him in the face.

“Maybe I’m just stupid,” John replies, sleepiness starting to take hold as he buries his head into the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. Arthur, ever the gentlemen, reaches down to try and get John back into his pants proper-like.

“I don’t think so,” Arthur says, “I’m the stupid one, for askin’ you to leave, instead of considerin’ that we –”

But John doesn’t let Arthur go down that route, just laughs and kisses him slowly on the lips before pulling away. “Nah, I don’t think that’s it. Been told I got one of them punchable faces.”


End file.
